


before the evening's gone away

by devviepuu



Series: in which storybrooke is a hipster maine brooklyn and ruby sasses emma.  a lot. [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Captain Cobra, Background Red Beauty, F/M, Idiots in Love, Tumblr Prompt, background Snowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:27:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devviepuu/pseuds/devviepuu
Summary: It was almost cold enough for a frost--but that was enough when morning came, clean and bright and the leaves crunching underneath her feet.  The thing about the frost was, it would have killed her dahlias, and Emma needed them--had special-ordered them, in fact, in the spring, had nurtured them all summer through the May downpours and the July brutality, the August drought, had pinched them and disbudded them and staked them all for this very moment.It was Ruby Lucas’ wedding day.  Of-fucking-course the universe complied.--a sequel, of sorts, to 'operation tulips (your two lips should kiss)'from a series of autumn prompts on tumblr:tying your jacket around your waist as the day heats up from the cold morning, drinking cinnamon-spiced tea, admiring the different hues of the fallen leaves, the ever-growing chill as each night goes by.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: in which storybrooke is a hipster maine brooklyn and ruby sasses emma.  a lot. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982063
Comments: 20
Kudos: 45





	before the evening's gone away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katie_Dub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_Dub/gifts), [RecoveringTheSatellites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecoveringTheSatellites/gifts).



It was the kind of morning that belonged on a goddamn postcard, sunny and golden everywhere the light touched. Emma Swan pulled off her red leather jacket, tying it around her waist. The sun was barely up but already the day was warming so quickly that mist rose from the lake as she passed, no matter that it had been almost cold enough to bring on the first frost the night before, the bite in the air delicious and cold with just a hint of the bitterness and the depths of the Maine winter still to come. _Almost_ cold enough for a frost, cold enough to burrow under the blankets in front of the fireplace and sip on the cup of cinnamon-laced tea that did _not_ come from The Good Witch, thank you very much, it came from the temperature-controlled kettle Killian insisted on, just like he insisted that she join him for a splash of rum to make the warmth of the beverage that little bit smoother and hotter as it went down.

It was the kind of morning that made Emma want to stay in bed always, six-thirty AM and still dark and Killian’s arms around her like he would never let her go. Emma could still taste it--the rum, not the cold--when Killian kissed her, spicy and sweet, and when he put the mug down and let his hands start wandering, the tattoos flashing in the firelight where they climbed up his left wrist. She did not need the extra warmth when she was hot all over on the inside, fire burning everywhere he touched her--the metal of his rings, his fingers in her hair, the sound he made of pure contentment.

The kind of sound that meant forever.

Maybe a frost would have been worth it, for all that it would have killed her dahlias, and she needed them--had special-ordered them, in fact, the Cafe au Lait kind “for the _theme_ , Emma, obviously” and the colors, had nurtured them all summer through the May downpours and the July brutality, the August drought, had pinched them and disbudded them and staked them all for this very moment.

It was Ruby Lucas’ wedding day. Of-fucking-course the universe complied, no frost and that was all that mattered, the morning clean and bright and the leaves crunching underneath her feet as Emma walked from _their_ house.

She, Emma Swan, lived in a house with Killian Jones. _Their_ house, and Emma still couldn’t believe it sometimes, not even when she looked at the photos on the wall of her, of them, of Killian and her kid, of Killian and her brother, of the evidence of their life together; if someone told her it was still February and they were still sitting outside of The Good Witch in the fucking cold she’d believe it except for the leaves that had emerged and senesced since then, their colors glowing in the sunlight. They had a house. They were a family--Killian, Emma, Henry. It had been strange to move out of David’s apartment, to be away from him, but it just meant their family was bigger, for the first time since David’s mother died.

Leroy walked by, _whistling_. “Big day,” he called, as if Emma didn’t know, hadn’t been roped into the proposal and tasked with getting the filters on the photos _exactly right_ \--the centerpieces just so on the tables in a pre-approved color scheme--sent to the paper announcing the ‘sleepy small-town social event of the season’ as if Storybrooke, Maine could possibly have either a social event _or_ a ‘season’. There was summer tourist season and winter tourist season and either way they wanted their lattes and the diner was packed when Emma walked in.

The tent was already set up and accompanied by a bossy, petite, pixie-cut brunette. _Killian’s_ friend, because of course she was. She had green eyes and milky white skin and red apples on her cheeks and her name was Mary Margaret Blanchard but Killian called her Snow. As in, Snow White.

Ha. Ha.

“Should I be concerned at how many beautiful women you seem to know?” Emma asked when Killian mentioned her. She wasn’t jealous--this wasn’t high school anymore--but _seriously?_

But he hadn’t invited Mary Margaret up for old times’ sake.

“No matter what you hear, love, men and women can be friends, and Snow is one of the best.”

At wedding planning, of course.

“Okay,” Emma said. “But don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

The way his smile lit up his entire face and his laughter echoed made her love him even more and then he said, seriously, “I would despair if you did.”

Besides, it wasn’t _Emma_ Killian had brought Mary Margaret here to meet.

Poor David. It’s not that he was a lost cause with his square jaw and blonde hair and puppy dog blue eyes. He had a sort of natural charm. It was just that ”he’s got no game,” as KIllian always said, and it was true. He worked at the goddamn animal shelter, for crying out loud. Puppies and kittens and all of the cute things and meanwhile Mary Margaret looked like the type of person whom small woodland animals would talk to--another princess for the squad, except that it was seven-fifteen and Mary Margaret had eyes only for David, who sat quietly at his table in the courtyard pretending to watch the preparations when really he was watching _her_.

Just like he had been every day for the past week.

Emma sighed and braced herself and she had plenty of time because fucking Leroy hadn’t held the door open for her, asshole. She stuck her tongue out at his receding back and slammed the door shut behind her for emphasis.

“Hey!” Ruby called out, turning from where she had just replaced a glass bottle with the name ‘Mabel’ in the open case. The streaks in her hair were extra red today, her lipstick extra bright, her shorts extra short. “You go easy on my door, Swan!”

Emma opened it again and slammed it again and stuck her tongue out (again) for good measure. Belle laughed and slid off the countertop and didn’t even wobble on her six-inch heels. Her hair was already done--or maybe it just always looked that good--in gentle auburn waves cascading down her back. “Have you seen what is going on outside?” Emma asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Ruby said. “Seeing as how we’re paying for all of it, I’ve kept an eye on it.”

Emma took the dishtowel off Ruby’s shoulder and shooed her out from behind the counter. “I meant the blatant and obvious pining.”

Ruby snorted a laugh through her nostrils that turned into a cough and exchanged a look with Belle, the kind that was knowing and exasperated and made Belle start giggling, the back of her hand up against her mouth like covering it up was going to make the sound less obvious.

Emma did her best to ignore them as she got the metallic Italian monstrosity of an espresso machine going, working a pot of milk under the heat to get it steamed and ready for a cup of coca, but even she had limits and finally she turned back to the two women who were still laughing--at her--and said, “Okay. What?”

“Oh, honey,” Ruby said, snorting another laugh and looking at Belle with a kind of “amirite or amirite” thing happening that made Emma shift a bit on her feet. “You’re kidding, yeah?”

“David has been out there every morning for a week!” Emma said.

“And you and Killian knew each other for how long--”

“Fifteen years,” Belle chimed in.

“--before you finally got down to business.”

“Yeah, okay, but it wasn’t like _that_ obvious--”

“Granny and Leroy had a bet on it.”

“In high school?”

“No,” Ruby conceded. “You were dating Neal. But the pining was _real_ , babe. Everyone knew it. Tink, Ursula, Ariel. David. The entire senior class at prom.”

“We danced _once_ ,” Emma said.

Once.

It hadn’t felt like anything except _everything_ at the time, when he’d come up to her during a lull in the music and they were talking and then the music just _started_. The dance was almost over and everyone was talking about the after-parties and Killian looked at her, earnest and with one of his smiles, and said, “Dance with me?”

“You know how to do--” she gestured “--whatever this is?”

“It’s called a waltz,” he said. “My mother taught me.” And without another word he held his hand out for hers and like a spell had been put on her she took it, felt the warmth of him and the nearness of him and she let herself be pulled onto the dance floor. She looked everywhere but at him--they looked anywhere but at each other--but as the song went on her steps took her closer and closer to him and she stopped giggling because nothing about it was funny, with the serious way his eyes suddenly didn’t leave hers, the way his thumb rubbed over her wrist.

And then the song ended.

Killian could waltz.

Emma was surprised she’d still had her clothes on by the end of it.

“Yeah,” Ruby said, and winked. “Exactly. Emma and Killian, TL4E.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Emma said.

“Tru Luv For-evah! I’ve got a sense for these things, you know,” Ruby said with a wicked grin. “But Tink had some good stories about all of the ways it was still worth it.” Her eyebrows did the talking this time, the way she raised them and the shit-eating grin. “So--is he? Tell us. A little inspiration for the wedding night.”

“Um, no thanks,” Belle said, swatting Ruby on the shoulder.

“Hey, speaking of wedding nights--” Ruby batted Belle’s hand away “--when is Killian going to make an honest woman out of you?”

She had never spent time in high school doodling on notebooks, _Mrs. Killian Jones. Mrs. Emma Jones. Ms. Emma Jones. Emma Swan-Jones_.

Which wasn’t to say that she’d never thought about it.

Still--

“Never thought I’d hear you making those kinds of bullshit heteronormative assumptions about an antiquated, patriarchal institution that fails as often as it succeeds.” Emma recited the rant faithfully, making exaggerated air quotes as she did it.

“I,” Ruby said with exaggerated gravity, “am a trailblazer--”

“In so many ways,” Emma muttered. Just because of the _Portland Press Herald_ and she was never going to hear the end of it.

“--but we’re talking about you,” Ruby said. “No reason _you_ can’t put a ring on it.”

There was nothing to say to that. Because it wasn’t--

They weren’t--

“Do you want to?”

The fact that it was Ruby’s wedding day was the only reason Emma didn’t throw something at her.

Emma was happy. She had never been someone who wished she was married. There were times in her life where, yeah, having a partner--someone to pick up the slack, to make her coffee--

Or tea.

She had it. She had _him_ , but now Ruby was in her face with her questions and her stupid grin and Emma hadn’t wanted to get out of bed that morning, to ruin the way it felt to be cocooned in the blankets with him on a chilly fall morning like it could _always_ be like this.

They hadn’t talked about it. Yet. Ever.

It hadn’t come up.

They were--they were _them_ , finally, and that was all that mattered, here and now and he really, really _was_ worth it, fantastic with his hands and his mouth and--

He helped her kid with his homework and was building her a new, bigger greenhouse for her flowers, with raised beds in the ground instead of potting benches so she could grow her own roses including the lavender Posiedon ones. She’d hung the paper hearts on their strings in the kitchen window of his house which was now _their_ house. Henry had his own room and Killian’s old telescope and a permanent partner for Xbox.

Having a wedding--or not--didn’t make any of that more or less real.

But being _married_. To Killian.

Wouldn’t that be something.

“Hey,” Emma said brightly, a large and mostly false smile on her face, “don’t you have an elsewhere to be?”

They hadn’t talked about it. Things were good just the way they were.

“We do,” Belle said, but Ruby just shrugged.

“I wonder what kind of crazy-ass scheme your kid is gonna come up with for David and Mary Margaret,” Ruby said with, Emma thought, an inappropriate amount of glee.

“Babe--” Belle said. “Henry’s not going to do--”

“Oh, shit,” Emma said, looking out the window. “Yeah, he is.” She pointed. “He totally is.”

Henry was hovering around the edges of the diner courtyard behind the framed oversized mirror with the gel-pen writing that said ‘Welcome’ in what Emma recognized as Killian’s immaculate and decorative script and Henry’s sweet innocent face did absolutely nothing to conceal the “I have a plan” look in his eyes.

Okay, well.

Whatever. David deserved it.

“That’s my boy,” Ruby said.

“Can you just _go_ already, please?”

“Absolutely not, Em. And miss this?”

Mary Margaret had kept David and Killian and Graham Humbert, the local woodsman, busy all week with axes filling up the woodpile, a scene could have--should have--been a goddamn photo shoot full of beautiful men in tight t-shirts with exposed arms. A music video or a freaking _porno_ , either way it would have been totally valid with that level of male beauty on display. Granny, Ruby and Emma had spent half a morning just watching them, Granny sighing appreciatively whenever Killian smiled at her and Ruby all “I’m getting married, I’m not _dead_ ” whenever Belle came to check on them.

Mary Margaret was now arranging the cut wood as centerpieces with pyrographic lettering--Killian’s handwriting again--spelling out table numbers and cutesy sayings, “i love you” and “forever starts today”. The rest of the stack, artfully arranged, was awaiting the lighting of Ruby’s fucking cauldron. “It’s famous now,” she said as explanation, pointing to the framed newspaper clipping from Valentine’s Day that showed the fire going and the magic hour gleaming and the string lights twinkling and Emma and Killian wrapped around each other for all posterity--to say nothing of the number of Instagram hits, which had been unbearable and Emma had heard about it every day for two weeks. That fucking fire lit every weekend not just through the winter but into the spring and then the summer because Ruby had _zero_ shame and why should she? The s’mores “experience” was on the menu now, like, permanently. Ruby was talking about doing hand-made marshmallows and homemade graham crackers instead of “the store-bought stuff because we have _class_ , Em”.

There were upturned mason jars on top of the logs on each table and Mary Margaret painstakingly laid out a tea light candle on each before arranging, with affected carelessness, rocks and branches and bunches of Emma’s dried flowers in the pre-approved color scheme: milkweed pods and starflower scabiosas and lavender nicotianas and cupcake cosmos in faded pastel hues, each bunch accentuated with a cut branch wrapped in LED fairy lights.

It was the rocks that became the problem as Henry scooted up with an over-filled coffee cup that appeared to be genuinely full of hot liquid because just as he went to accidentally-on-purpose spill it all over poor, unsuspecting Mary Margaret David lept to the rescue and was rewarded with a bath of coffee and a rock to the face, steam coming off of his t-shirt and blood dripping from a cut on his chin.

\--

At least the flowers weren’t ruined.

That’s what Killian said, anyway.

“Cheer up, Swan, the flowers are safe.” He winked. “This time. Though the last time worked out all right, yeah?”

He helped her cut the dahlias, following her with a bucket of cold water as she inspected each one, checking for resting bees and selecting blooms that were both half- and fully-open to get a good mix of shapes. Emma was never going to get tired of watching his hands when he worked, the way his wrist flexed when he grasped the long stems she needed to make the wedding bouquet. It was soothing and hypnotic and it did things to her insides but today she watched his fingers, his rings and the way the sunlight jumped and glinted off the metal.

“We still make a good team,” he said as he hovered behind her at the potting bench, reaching around to grab an extra bloom while she arranged the flowers until she was satisfied. There was a range of colors, the different genetics on each plant showing through in their mixtures of cream and white and peach and pink.

Emma watched him and imagined what it would look like if he swapped the ring on his fourth finger for another one, something smooth and simple and with a wide band.

It was an image that followed her back into the house and hovered in her mind as she watched him get ready. She didn’t know what it meant, but--

It was a _lot_.

\--

Magic hour and the last of the sun was disappearing in a sliver of golden sparks as the happy couple said ‘I do’, Ruby tall and statuesque in a black tuxedo jacket and shorts and black pumps with red soles, red nails and red lipstick and her hair done in a loose ponytail. Belle--whose hair apparently did always just look that good--had put hers up and tucked it under a cream-colored felt cloche to go with her translucent lace short-sleeved sweater, a lacey bra just peeking through; her skirt was short, woven wool and pleated and she had knee-high lace knit stockings to go with her cream-colored oxford-style heels that still only brought her to Ruby’s shoulder.

They looked amazing together.

The string lights were on and the fire in the cauldron was going, the candles on the tables lit. Mary Margaret had stacked milk crates into haphazard shelves full of photographs and lanterns, teacups from Belle’s collection and more of Emma’s flowers. The tables spilled out from the courtyard and into the road because of course Ruby had sweet-talked the mayor into closing down traffic for the night, not that there was much traffic even for the so-called social event of the season, and the dance floor was in the middle of Main Street. The bar was custom drinks, mulled cider in milk bottles and a hollowed-out log full of ice and chilling white wine and pint-sized mason jars instead of wine glasses because “it’s rustic” and that was “the theme”.

God, Ruby was good.

So was Mary Margaret, done up to the nines with her pixie cut spiked out, her lips blood red, rocking something Emma could only think to describe as ‘schoolteacher chic’ in a white cardigan and lacey camisole and a tea-length skirt that had honest-to-god feathers layered over the fabric so that they fluttered when she moved--and she was _always_ on the move. David was right behind her, the bleeding long since staunched, tripping over himself to help her, to bring her a drink, to pull her onto the dance floor as she laughed and protested and eventually gave in to the inevitable.

“I’d call that a successful operation,” Killian said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist as they watched Mary Margaret and David sway awkwardly to the music as if no one in the universe existed but the two of them. When Leroy tripped over himself and knocked into David he looked like someone pulled out of a trance.

Emma breathed in deeply, inhaling the smell that was _Killian_ mixing in with the fire and the crunchy leaves and his leather jacket that he wore over a shirt and a tie. “Hey, maybe stop planning Operations with my kid, okay?”

Something about that made Killian laugh, a gentle snort that tickled her ear.

“Ah, the lad means no harm. And look at the result.” Emma could hear the smile in his voice, the contentment, the warmth. “Though maybe I should give your brother some dance lessons, yeah?”

“It is a bit painful.”

“Well, he’s got plenty of time before the wedding.” Emma felt Killian shrug behind her and suddenly the warmth was _gone_ because she was frozen on the spot.

“Whose wedding?”

“Theirs, of course,” Killian said, and--

She wasn’t disappointed.

(She _wasn’t_.)

“That’s a happily-ever-after in the making, I think.” He laughed. Emma wanted to bottle that sound, she loved to listen to him laugh and make him laugh and she loved to laugh with him but suddenly this didn’t feel funny. “Or are we too old and jaded for that kind of thing already?”

“I am,” Emma said softly, stepping away and turning to look at him.

And maybe that was it--the truth--because growing up alone for fourteen years, not the best start. Knocked up with a criminal record at eighteen probably hadn’t helped, either, or the infrequent and unimportant one-nighters in the years until--

Until Killian.

His face turned serious, his gaze intent and blue and focused only on her. She wasn’t the only one who’d been through hell, either--his father gone, his mother dead, his brother dead, his girlfriend in London killed by a drunk driver in the accident that left his wrist scarred. Killian had seven tattoos and they accounted for three of them. “Aye,” he murmured. “Perhaps I am too.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she said, barely a whisper over the noise of the wedding music but the entire world seemed like it was just the two of them and this moment. “We both know that you’re the romantic one.”

He smiled.

The music changed.

“Dance with me, Swan,” he said, holding out his hand to take hers.

Emma felt like she was missing something, like there was more to be said--and she wanted to say it. This was a capital-M _Moment_ and she couldn’t let it pass her by and his eyes hurt to look at, his stupid, ridiculous, unfairly-blue eyes all focused on her.

“No, I don’t think--” Emma said, and then her mouth fell open and she looked at him every bit as intently as he was looking at her. “I know this song.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I hoped you would. Defeats the point, otherwise. But this is the original, you know, Tom Waits instead of Hootie.”

Emma smiled. “Do _not_ insult Hootie.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said. “Do you remember the steps?”

“No,” Emma said. “But I have a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

He smiled, that big smile that she loved when it lit up the night the way it was doing now. “Always, Emma.”

The music played and Emma counted silently in her head _one-two-three-one-two-three_ because it was hard to look at him with all of the thoughts she was thinking and things she was feeling and then he was whispering in her ear.

“Do you ever think about getting married?”

Emma almost tripped, but there was something in his voice that made her smile, made her want to just--it was in her nature, maybe, to push back--

“I mean,” she shrugged. “I guess. If I ever met the right guy.”

“Ouch, Swan, you wound me.” He pulled her closer and there was warmth the entire length of him where their bodies pressed together and Emma couldn’t hear the song anymore, or the crowd of people around them. “So if I were the right guy, you would marry me?”

A wedding. A _marriage_. A life.

They were dancing in the middle of Main Street and joking and-- _what_?

It was a lot.

A _lot_.

Emma put her head on his shoulder. “Mmm.”

It wasn’t an answer.

“Wait--” Killian said. “You wouldn’t?”

Cool air rushed in between them, the murmur of the pressing crowd around them buzzing in Emma’s consciousness as the moment started to break.

“That’s not what I said,” Emma said. “What about you?”

“I think if I were into guys I would have asked Dave, you know. He’s quite--”

“Depressingly straight,” Emma said, her hand on his cheek, tracing the line of his jawbone, keeping his focus entirely on her. She pulled him back, closer this time, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and wrapping her other hand around his neck. She smiled. “Would you?”

“Would I what?”

“Marry me?”

His eyes widened and his eyebrows were up practically in his hair and his pupils were wide and dark and she could see the string lights reflecting in them as he considered her and then he smiled and his hands ran up and down her arms and he was shaking with laughter that he was holding in. “Did you just ask me to marry you?”

“No,” she said, but then he sighed and made a noise that was almost a laugh. “Maybe?”

Leroy’s voice echoed into the street. “Friends,” he said, and that was funny because Emma was pretty sure he didn’t have any, so Ruby must have written him a script or maybe Mary Margaret had. “Ruby and Belle would like everyone to join them for the bouquet toss.”

Emma didn’t move, though. This was too important.

“I don’t know, love,” he said, scrunching up his face, his eyebrow up, pretending to give it consideration. “I’m going to have to think about it. Shall we?”

And he gestured--just, like, with his hand--toward the sweetheart table that was more like a throne Mary Margaret had put together, a shiplap wooden background with lanterns hung on hooks and empty ornate picture frames and Ruby and Belle’s names in white paint over a vintage loveseat--as if he expected her to follow him.

And he said nothing.

_Nothing_.

What. The. Fuck.

“Wait--”

“They’re your flowers. Come on, Emma, it’s tradition, and Ruby’s waiting for us.”

Ruby was, in fact, apparently waiting, one hand on her hip as she tapped her toe against the small platform. Belle had the bouquet next to her and it really did fit “the theme” and look exquisite against the delicate cream lace and wool skirt. Except--

Belle smiled and nudged her wife, who spotted them and pointed a finger out into the crowd. The bouquet sailed through the air in a perfect arc and landed on the pavement at Emma’s feet.

Oh.

_Oh_.

“One last Operation, Swan, how’s that?”

The flowers--they weren’t her dahlias. Or at least, they weren’t _just_ her dahlias.

Someone had added roses. _Purple_ roses. Fucking lavender roses like the ones Killian had--

Tied around the stems was a string of paper hearts. _Her_ paper hearts that fluttered against the kitchen windows because she’d saved them, after--

Emma bent her knees and lowered herself to the pavement and that’s when she saw it, twinkling in the string lights and the paper hearts looped through it. She pulled a lavender rose carefully out of the bouquet and studied it for a moment--untied the string, slid the ring onto her finger and it felt like it belonged there, like she’d always been wearing it or maybe waiting for it, _Ms. Emma Swan-Jones_ or whatever.

His smile was going to split his face in half.

Emma was shaking. Her face hurt because she was smiling so hard but her voice was steady when she said, “So that’s a yes, then?”

Killian stepped closer to her, crowding into her space, their noses almost touching, their breath mingling--sweet, spicy, warm--and “ _yes_ ,” he whispered, closing the non-existent distance between them, squeezing her so tightly her feet left the ground.

Emma didn’t hear the cheering or the whistles or the catcalls or Ruby shrieking or Henry calling them.

Killian kissed her.

Killian kissed her, and the world vanished.

\--

Still.

Maybe Emma shouldn’t have been _too_ surprised when Ruby, fresh off her honeymoon, found her one morning huddled in the restroom and handed over a cup of mint tea with a heaping side order of “I-told-you-so” smirk.

“At least,” Ruby said, “you won’t be knocked up and unmarried _twice_ , Em.”

**Author's Note:**

> the song is "i hope that i don't fall in love with you", by tom waits
> 
> Well the room is crowded, people everywhere  
> And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?  
> Well if you sit down with this old clown  
> Take that frown and break it  
> Before the evening's gone away  
> I think that we could make it  
> And I hope that I don't fall in love with you
> 
> \--
> 
> I can see that you are lonesome just like me  
> And it being late, you'd like some some company  
> Well I turn around to look at you  
> And you look back at me  
> The guy you're with he's up and split  
> The chair next to you's free  
> And I hope that you don't fall in love with me


End file.
